But it seems impossible, unjustifiable.
Whatever I look at, whatever I hear or feel seems blissful.
Cloudy swirls in the slowly drifting brackish estuary,
flanking the aquabatics of the jumping silver fish creating his own rippling three ring spotlight.
As for the shoreline, forget it.
Broken pieces of pearlescent shells bejeweling the Gulf Coast sand,
hosting an organized scatter of ruddy turnstones pecking for a late morning snack.
A slick dome shaped shell, freckled in fine point black specks and tiny little fissures.
I tried to walk away, but of course the Gulf.
The innumerable hues of greens and blues in a perfect water color blend drew me in further.
My feet gently sunk into the silky wet sand as the salty water washed and cleansed me, setting my feet in deeper.
The foam where the water meets the sand, bathing the coast in champagne -like bubbles in celebration of all its glory.
So I tried to shut my eyes, but of course the beach.
I could hear the pushing and pulling of the tide and the gush of the flowing sea.
I heard the sound of the coastal breezes whirring around my ears and through my hair and the trees.
They seem to sing to me in prayer, giving me a message, a meaning, or saying nothing at all.
So special is the beach, who knows maybe it is sacred.
So special is the beach, who knows, maybe the sky above it is sacred too.
And the silver fish, and the mollusks and the ruddy turnstones,
and the sand and the sea, and me.
We are one and the same.
Sacred yet ordinary.
*This poem was written following a series of writing exercises at the 2nd Annual Women's Writing Retreat at Lover's Key. I used Mary Oliver's poem This World.
